“Ashes, Ashes!” — All Fall Down!

I had to get out of bed today, at the start of daylight, and write this one down. And in the morning, I was pretty sure I dreamt the whole thing up.

Habitually, I jump-started the morning, today: Coffee — on, alarm — off. Teeth, curtains, phone calls. Fuss with the landscape of my schedule. Inevitably: Work! Read some; work, read some more. And not until I reached for my journal to jot down a well-molded sentence by a fellow writer well-versed in the humanity of men (no, not mankind — but men, specifically) — that I found the scribbles in my tired handwriting, back at the start of daylight:

How ever do you hurdle over a good woman?

After writing that, I tangled myself back into the womb of my sheets and I remembered that normally at this hour, my men would become my sons. My children: I find them, in my sleepy stupor of suspended dreams, and I memorize their faces. Those — are the faces I choose to keep in the front; because it is then, I believe, a man’s humanity — is at his best.

So, ask me how to hurdle over a man and I might whip up a game or two. I usually carry on with this one play:

I stay in touch with the resigned game partner, especially if it was his idea to stop playing. Why, why, why would I be tempted to pick at this dried-up scab, earned from our silly horseplay? After years of this pattern, I must admit: For the stories.

Yep, the stories, my children. Immediately after a break-up, they are never redemptive but mostly recyclable. Between the two of us, it’s a game of “Remember When?”; and for a while, that’s sort of titillating enough, in a sickly way. Before “Remember When?”, I used to run the marathons of “But You Did This!”, but that would always turn out to be bad for my finger joints; because there would be just so much wagging a scorned lover could do. But during “Remember When?”, eventually, the tempers mellow out, the egos settle down: And soon enough, we are able to have a conversation.

It is time, then, for a game of crooked mirrors. Not so long ago in want, in need, in blind love with each other, we suddenly find ourselves roaming around a funhouse, looking for our better reflections. Truth be told, by that point, we aren’t even interested in the most flattering reflections of our selves (and we even have an occasional chuckle at our expense). We are just looking for a couple of matching ones.

“Does your truth — match my truth?”

We keep on wandering. So very tired we are by then, by all the previous wagers and competitions and games — by the finger wagging and “you’re it!” tagging — we both know this somewhere near the very end. Silence would follow this game if mutual truths are found. If not — we go for a few more tours around the funhouse.

“How about this truth then? Does it seem true, to you?”

At this point in the game, redemption is yet to come. At this point in the game, redemption — is not even the point of it. There may be some forgiveness, along the way, mostly for the sake of closure; and that self-forgiveness is sometimes so selfish — it’s profane. There may even be some letting off the hook of the other scorned party, but mostly out of exhaustion.

But redemption: It demands time. It’s a sentence we must serve, willingly or not; and maybe not until the next loves — the next games with karmic losses at the end — that salvation comes. Until then, we are just wandering around a funhouse, comparing truths.

(But then again, that’s just me. Out of all the choices of child’s play, I’m always in the mood for some storytelling. So, that may not be the name of the game, for you, my children.)

So: How ever do you hurdle over a good woman?

I’ve never played this one, so I have no clue. But ask me how to hurdle over a good man (because we always fall in love with his goodness, first; with the best of his humanity), I may whip up a game or two:

Take baths: They are womb-like — the ultimate homecoming. “Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub…”

Hide away his letters, and all of his words; his residues, his scents. Then, put away your own: The perfumes you used to wear to leave on his pillows and in his hair; the lotions with which you rubbed his tired joints (before the finger wagging started). And when there is an urge to dig it all up again: Surrender to it. Oh, yes, my kiddos: It’s gonna be a lengthy round of Hide-and-Seek.

Whatever you do, don’t sign-up for a round of Simon Says: You’ll end up wagging your fingers, again.

And finally, alas: Silence Game. You can’t skip that one, sorry; not if you eventually want to start winning some. In the beginning, you just might be curious to see who can hold his or her breath the longest. But do follow through. Play the Silence Game: You can’t skip that one, not if you want to stop losing!